


First Interlude: 2996-2998 of the Third Age

by Edoraslass, just_ann_now



Series: Two Heirs [2]
Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angsty Schmoop, Drabble, Ficlet, First Kiss, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-23
Updated: 2014-03-24
Packaged: 2018-01-16 18:30:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1357570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Edoraslass/pseuds/Edoraslass, https://archiveofourown.org/users/just_ann_now/pseuds/just_ann_now
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For all that they loved each other all their lives, Boromir and Théodred met infrequently. These are brief stories set during the period between their first meeting in TA 2996  and their reunion in Aldburg in TA 3000.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Kiss

**The First Kiss** , by just_ann_now

 

The first man who kissed me pushed me up against a wall outside a seedy tavern on the second level. I was sixteen.

_Hssst, that is the Steward’s son,_ a passerby murmured; we did not care. I had kissed girls before, had been kissed by women of experience and skill, but nothing stirred me like this. He broke away, laughing, making me beg for more.

Later, I kissed others, boys and men; and soon there was nothing I did not know of the pleasures of the flesh. Or so I thought.

Until Théodred kissed me; then all things became new.


	2. Comfort

**Comfort** , by Edoraslass

 

It is Midsummer, and though everyone else in Aldburg is celebrating, Théodred is overwhelmed with loneliness. There is a dull ache in his chest, and he knows no amount of ale will banish it. That does not stop him from drinking, though he has yet to feel any effects of the brew.

A great shout of welcome arises from the dance square, and by the moonlight, he sees that Eomund and Théodwyn have joined the other dancers. His small cousin Eomer sits on the grass next to the square, watching his parents with sleepy eyes, determined not to miss a moment of the festivities. Younger Eowyn is asleep, her thumb in her mouth, her head resting on her brother’s knee.

Théodred looks away from the merry crowd, and stares up at the stars without seeing them. His heart is in no mood to be cheerful; all day, he has observed people enjoying themselves with one another, laughing and talking and touching, and watching this has turned his mind to sweet, melancholy recollections of his brief time in Gondor. He cannot remember ever feeling so alone while among his family and friends.

There are certainly companions who would be willing to soothe his low spirits, but on this night, of all the nights of the year, the last thing he wants is a man‘s attentions. A man would only remind him of what he does not have and may never have again.

He shakes his head, trying to drive away memories of inviting grey eyes, wide strong shoulders, of a low chuckle that made his skin shiver in delight, memories that have haunted him for months. No good will come of dwelling on what is past.

Théodred casts an idle glance at those around him, wondering if he could slip away unnoticed. He knows that solitude is likely to dishearten him further, but he does not want to be around so many revelers.

He sees Raedwyn watching him thoughtfully. He has passed more than one satisfying evening with her, and she always receives him, if she has no man. _It is what it is,_ she has said. _And I would not have it be more._

He knows that she cannot drive the pain away permanently -- there is only one person who can do that, and he is behind the high stone walls of Mundberg, hundreds of miles from Aldburg. But she will keep the isolation at bay, and she will not ask endless questions, as his aunt or uncle might. For a moment, he is glad his father is in Edoras, for Théoden would certainly guess the path of his son’s thoughts, and Théodred does not wish to speak of it.

He hesitates, gulping the rest of the ale, and when he lowers the mug, finds her sitting next to him.

“Whose presence are you missing so keenly?” she asks, and there is both sympathy and understanding on her face.

I should not be surprised that she sees it, Théodred reflects. I have known her too long.  
He regards Raedwyn, realizing from her expression that she, too, has been parted from someone who holds her heart. “What would be your answer, if I asked that of you?”

She gives an almost-smile that is tinged with her own loneliness, and only shakes her head.

He smiles in the same manner. “That is my answer as well.”

Raedwyn‘s gaze is steady on his. “Shall we keep each other company?”

A moment of consideration, then Théodred nods, taking her hand as he stands. They leave the celebration behind, as they walk toward the hall and the welcome seclusion of his chamber.


	3. Comfortless

**Comfortless** , by just_ann_now

 

He takes her a bit roughly, then lies remorseful, unsatisfied.

"Tell me about him."

"How did you know?" 

"You’ve not taken a lover in months, and Riders talk. A dark haired lord, they say, your match in power and beauty and skill, as the sun and the moon sharing the sky."

And so he tells her of their first meeting and their first coupling, and their last; and the flavor of his skin, and the magic of his voice. And she thinks of _her_ faraway lover, and knows that this night has not eased the pain for either of them.


	4. Theo and Besorg

**Theo and Besorg** , by Edoraslass

 

Not drunk, but not entirely sober, Théodred made his way to the tattooist’s shop. “A horse in gallop,” he said, “with mane and tail flowing. Just here, in the small of my back.” His confident speech was more feigned than genuine. This was not only because, at fifteen years of age, he did not know quite what to expect when getting a tattoo, but also because the artist, Besorg, took him completely by surprise. 

Besorg was nearly as tall as Théodred and several years older; his shoulders were well-made, his eyes were a clear, deep blue, and his thick red hair hung down his back in a single braid. Théodred could not help but wonder fleetingly how he would look with that hair loosed.

Besorg only smiled and said, “As my lord wishes,” but there was something to his voice that made the younger man think of late nights and quiet murmurs in the dark. Théodred tried not to look at Besorg’s ink-stained, graceful fingers as the man gestured toward the padded worktable.

The skin being tattooed soon stung and became rather numb. Besorg’s hand was gentle as he occasionally wiped the area with a damp cloth, and his warm breath puffed against Théodred’s flesh. Théodred tried not to think of the handful of other times he had been in such a position, with a man behind him and strong hands on his body. The hollow of his back tingled at the recollection as a shiver made its way up his spine. Besorg stopped in his work, and laid a calming hand against Théodred’s shoulder. “It will be easier if you relax,” he said, and Théodred swallowed at the memory of Elfhelm saying very similar words in a very similar tone not long ago.

As he lay face-down on the table, Théodred thought of mucking out stables, of the stench of dead orc, of anything that would keep him from reacting to the other man, but it seemed a futile effort. If Besorg had been the talkative type, it might have been easier, but he was wholly focused on his art, and Théodred was too intent on distracting himself to start a meaningless conversation.

When Besorg finished, he applied a cool healing salve that lessened the sting. Théodred could not repress a small sigh of relief, and Besorg chuckled quietly. A hand slid across the back of Théodred’s bared hip, almost quickly enough to be an accident, but still, it felt like a caress, and Théodred buried his face in his arms so that Besorg would not see the blood rising to his cheeks. “There, you may stand now.” 

Théodred was hesitant; a dull ache told him that if he stood now, he would likely shame himself with his body’s reaction. But he could not lie on this table forever, so he steeled himself and stood, though slowly, for his back was very stiff. He settled his breeches back on his hips and laced them quickly, grateful that his arousal was not obvious at a glance. When he looked up for his shirt, Besorg was holding it out to him, and there was an measuring gleam in the other man’s eyes that made Théodred's throat go dry. But all Besorg said was, “Is there anything else I can do for you today, my lord?”

Théodred did not know if it was the aftereffects of the ale or Besorg’s unwavering gaze that made him a bit light-headed. After Elfhelm’s gently thorough instruction, he had passed some evenings with a man or two near his own age, but thus far,he had spent more time with young women. He was not yet experienced enough in the ways of men to be certain that he understood what Besorg might be asking. 

Reluctantly he decided to err on the side of caution. “I thank you, no.” 

He reached for his shirt, drew it quickly over his head, then took coins from his pouch and laid them in Besorg’s palm. Their fingers brushed briefly; other man gave a broad, warm smile which took Théodred’s breath. “I would be pleased to be of service to you again, whenever you wish.”

 

~*~

 

When Théodred returned to Besorg’s shop, he told himself it was ridiculous to feel any sort of nervousness. But he could not help it; many times over the past five years, he had regretted that he had not known enough to accept the offer made to him. Even now, he was not certain that it had been an offer. Théodred remembered often being confused when he was younger as to whether a smile from a pretty girl or handsome man had been an invitation or simply a greeting. 

But many people – Boromir included – had remarked on the artistry of the horse tattoo, and this convinced him that Besorg was the only man with the skill necessary for what he wanted inked on his body now.

Besorg was as warm and genuine as he recalled; Théodred was surprised to realize that he was, in fact, much more handsome. Before, he had been too young to wholly understand the interest in Besorg’s eyes when their gazes met, nor had he appreciated the easy grace with which Besorg moved. Théodred had remembered the red hair clearly; he again wondered what it would look like freed from the braid, but now he also wondered what it would feel like under his hands. He moved his thoughts away from such distractions, and turned to the present matter.

When he explained what he wanted, Besorg was pleased. “It is not often that I have the opportunity for such detailed work,” he confided. “It will be at least two days in the making; knotwork can be difficult.” At Théodred’s agreement, he said, “Then if you will remove your shirt, my lord?”

The title sounded more like an endearment, and Théodred took a moment to collect himself. “I would be pleased if you would call me by name,” he said as he stripped off his shirt. 

“As you say…Théodred.”

Besorg’s voice was low, not quite suggestive, but Théodred was unaccountably self-conscious both at the tone, and at the frankly appraising way Besorg was now regarding him. _You are not fifteen any more,_ he scolded himself. _You have been with enough men that you should not be surprised when they look at you so._ It did not help; in fact, it only increased Théodred’s hopeful anticipation. 

Besorg gestured to a basin filled with water as he gathered his tools. “Your skin must be perfectly clean before I begin, so if you would bathe your shoulders and chest?” 

He did as bade, knowing that Besorg was watching appreciatively from out of the corner of his eye. So Théodred took his time, making certain to allow the beads of water to slide down the smooth muscles of his torso. He smiled when Besorg’s eyes darkened unmistakably at that, then unhurriedly dried himself as if he had all the time in the world. 

“Along here?” Besorg asked, approaching and tracing the line just under Théodred’s collar bone. Théodred only nodded, robbed of speech by the lazy caress. “Then here?” Light fingertips trailed along Théodred’s chest and belly, halted just above the waistline of his breeches. “And how far down would you like it to go?” Besorg’s thumb circled Théodred’s navel, his touch as teasing as his words. 

“Any lower would, I think, be too painful,” Théodred replied, relieved that his voice was steady. Besorg chuckled knowingly, then, with a lingering brush of his hand over Théodred’s stomach, ordered him to lie on the table.

Later, Théodred was never certain how he made it through that first session. Besorg began at the left shoulder, and Théodred was overly conscious of every move the other man made. He cursed himself for a fool before much time had passed; as any of Théodred’s lovers could have attested, his shoulders were a sensitive spot, and the small torture of warm breath and the tickle of escaped hair were slightly maddening. And if he opened his eyes, he could catch a glimpse of Besorg’s strong profile, the arch of his neck, half of that wide, generous mouth. 

Théodred did his best to _not_ open his eyes. Of course he did not need to see in order to inhale the scent of Besorg, as close as they were to one another, but he tried to not do that as well, for it made his whole body tighten and his breathing come a bit too quickly. 

Besorg paused in his work, glanced up at Théodred. “It will be easier if you relax,” he said blandly, but there was a wicked twinkle in his eye.

“So you have said,” Théodred replied, and now his voice was not so steady, though he managed a smile.

Besorg’s response was only a grin filled with promise.

As time passed, Théodred gave up trying to ignore the softly humming need that was building within him, for it was useless. Instead, he closed his eyes and allowed himself to focus on Besorg. Though the other man appeared to be intent on his creation, never speaking, Théodred gradually realized that Besorg was fully aware of what response his subtle actions were eliciting. A brush of fingertips across a nipple, too casual to be by chance; a hitch in Besorg’s breathing when he bent to the spot just below Théodred’s neck followed by a slow, deliberate exhalation that made him want to squirm; the very heat rising from Besorg’s body conspired to drive Théodred to frustration. And frustration indeed, for he could not move nor respond in any way other than to gasp softly, for fear of distracting Besorg from his work. His muscles began to ache from the effort of trying to remain perfectly still. 

So lost was Théodred in _not_ reacting, he did not notice that Besorg had stopped until he felt a hand moving along the inside of his thigh. His eyes flew open and he leaned up on his elbows, and saw his own desire reflected in Besorg’s steady gaze. 

“Loose your hair.” Théodred meant it to be an order; it came out as a breathless question. 

Besorg’s mouth quirked in a half-smile, but he obeyed quickly, removing the leather thong from his braid and combing it out with long, graceful fingers. Before Théodred could move, his breeches were unlaced and those same fingers had wrapped firmly around him. His head fell back with a deep sigh of relief, and then Besorg was atop him, lips seeking lips, and all Théodred could do was moan and draw him closer, relishing the taste of him. He buried his hands in that heavy hair, rising into each stroke of Besorg’s hand, hours of restraint threatening to undo him in mere moments. He gave a muffled noise of protest, not wanting to be finished so swiftly. 

As if he sensed Théodred’s thoughts, Besorg slowed the pace of his hand. “Gently,” he murmured, moving his mouth to Théodred’s neck. “I do not want this to be quick any more than you do. Or is that you would prefer to have _me_ , rather than my hand?” 

Théodred pulled roughly at Besorg’s hair, almost jerking the other man’s head up to meet his gaze. “I have wished that,” he admitted, unable to keep a hint of yearning from his ragged voice.

Besorg laughed quietly, though his eyes flared at the revelation. “Then have me you shall.” 

So saying, they moved from the table to stand on the floor. Besorg pulled his shirt over his head, and began to unfasten his own breeches, but Théodred stayed his hand to take over the task himself. Besorg relented without a word, and Théodred leaned forward to kiss him again as he finished pulling the other man’s laces free. Besorg was all hot mouth and wandering hands, and Théodred’s need flared to new heights. “Have you anything?” 

“There,” Besorg replied hoarsely, pointing to a small bottle on a shelf. Théodred retrieved it hastily, and when he turned back, Besorg was leaning forward on the worktable, watching Théodred over his shoulder with impatience. 

Théodred waited no longer. Besorg was eager beneath him, urging _harder, yes, ah yes there there_ so fervently that Théodred knew he would not be able to hold out for long. He reached forward to take Besorg in hand, drawing a wild moan from the other man, and at that he was overcome, groaning and shuddering as his fierce release took him. 

They stood, unmoving and gasping for breath for a long moment. At length, Théodred withdrew, and, turning Besorg to face him, pulled him into a slow, deep kiss. When they finally parted, Besorg’s eyes were sparkling with mirth. “You do not have to wait another five years before returning,” he said, laughter in his tone.

Théodred chuckled, suddenly aware that the raw tattoo on his chest was stinging with sweat. He grinned wickedly. “I will be back tomorrow, will I not?”


	5. Carpe Diem

**Carpe Diem** , by just_ann_now

 

Most often it was quick; most often it was rough. There was little time for delicacy when the risk of discovery, the weight of consequences, was so great. It was the price to be paid, in Gondor, to be a man who preferred the love of other men.

It took time for him to learn that he needn't rush, that he could savor each moment, each sensation. Was not pleasure a fleeting thing, to be treasured, and gentleness a sensation all its own? Rohan taught him that: life is short, life is unpredictable, seize your joy. Théodred taught him that.


End file.
